


Hero Worship

by reconditarmonia



Category: Master and Commander - Patrick O'Brian
Genre: M/M, Unfinished and Discontinued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-25
Updated: 2005-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reconditarmonia/pseuds/reconditarmonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pullings's cruise as captain of the <i>Surprise</i> prompts some reflections about himself and Captain Aubrey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hero Worship

Pullings takes off his hat and bends to get through the door to the sickberth. Captain Aubrey, as far is Pullings is concerned, started the practice of visiting the invalids, and it is an excellent one. The number of people that he visits on Sundays has steadily dwindled, as those wounded in battle or off the Horn have died or been patched up by Mr. Martin. The sickberth isn't quite empty yet, though.

"Good morning, Mr. West. I hope I find you well?"

He is shocked by the face that looks back at him. Not having the close friendship with the ship's surgeon that Captain Aubrey had with Dr. Maturin, he has been unaware that Mr. West has lost his nose.

Martin sees his shock. "Mr. West's nose was frostbitten during the passage," he says.

"Oh. I see."

Martin pours out two glasses of physic and doses his other patients. He shares Maturin's belief that the invalids should be exercised for their health, but before he leaves to bring the two seamen to the upper deck, he says "Captain Pullings, if you wish to speak to Mr. West, he may exercise later."

"Very well, Mr. Martin."

Pullings moves the chair closer to West's cot, and West sits up. "It really is frostbite, sir," he says.

Pullings nods. Not syphilis, then. But he knows that West, though not especially intelligent, is a responsible man. Anyway, the third lieutenant has not had shore leave since they crossed the Atlantic, and from Pullings's limited knowledge of venereal diseases, it would have shown up earlier if he had gotten it then.

He fingers the scar that runs across his face, from below his right eye, over his nose, and across his cheek to his left ear. It is the souvenir of one of Captain Aubrey's battles. Pullings and many others were in them as well, but he always thinks of them as Captain Aubrey's.

He gives West a small smile. "We won't be impressing the ladies when we return to London town, even with our fine clothes and fine tales." He automatically reaches out to touch wood: another gesture he has picked up from Captain Aubrey.

"You have more fine tales to tell than I do, sir. And an honorable wound to show for them."

Of course West has not sailed with Captain Aubrey as long as Pullings has, so he cannot tell of the taking of the _Cacafuego_ , or of the string of prizes filling the harbor of Port Mahon; neither was his wound received in battle. Seamen know of the dangers of storms, the Horn above all, but to a landsman a battle scar will always be more honorable.

Pullings leans over to inspect more closely the place where West's nose used to be. His face was open and honest before, like Pullings's own; now it is closed and sinister, though the voice and manner are the same, which renders the face insignificant.

Neither of them knows who moved first, but their mouths are together and West puts his hand on Pullings's arm to steady the swinging cot. Pullings is unsure whether to wonder why West is kissing him, or why he is kissing West. He thinks that when he was younger he may have felt something like this for Captain Aubrey.

\---

They break apart and look at each other, wide-eyed. West's hair is disheveled, and Pullings is pale under his dark tan. He moves his mouth, but no words come out.

He composes himself somewhat. "I hope to see you back on duty soon, Mr. West," he says quickly, and leaves.

"Thank you, sir," says West, the words hanging in the air with only himself to hear them.

The next day is Monday, and Pullings invites the officer of the watch to breakfast. The _Surprise_ , as a letter of marque, carries no midshipmen, so the customary number that Captain Aubrey would invite is reduced by one. Mr. West, released from the sickbay, is the officer of the morning watch, and he presents himself punctually at the door to the dining cabin.

In most ships of the Royal Navy, an invitation from a superior officer amounts to an order. Pullings wishes it was not so: he really does want to talk to West, but the constraint placed on a lieutenant in the presence of his captain makes candid conversation impossible. Perhaps it is different in a privateer; a democratic privateer, of course, since the _Surprise_ is run man-of-war fashion.

"Sit down, Mr. West." He is still not used to being the one saying this; until now, he has been on the receiving end of the phrase: "Sit down, Mr. Pullings." It is strange, having total authority. It is only until they meet Captain Aubrey again, though; after that, he will be plain First Lieutenant Pullings again, the commander without a ship.

He pours out a cup of coffee for himself, and after a moment's hesitation, one for West. He, like Captain Aubrey, cannot start the morning without coffee. It seems to him that all the lieutenants in the service share this addiction. It is only some of the captains that can get by on tea and chocolate.

"Mr. West, I was thinking that we might exercise the crew at shifting topmasts today."

"Very well, sir."

They are very quiet.

Pullings finishes his cup of coffee and reaches across the table for the pot, just as West decides that it really wouldn't strain courtesy to drink any more. Their fingers meet on the handle, and West pulls back quickly, but Pullings follows and pins his hand with his own. His eyes flit between the table and West's face.

He strokes the back of West's hand with his fingertips. The man reminds him of a horse that his father owned and that he helped to care for, before he went to sea. It was almost wild, and needed to be petted and spoken to soothingly before it would bear a rider. His eyes hold West's as his thumb brushes his fingers, and he leans over to whisper in his ear. West turns his head slightly to kiss Pullings on the cheek.

Perhaps they won't need to talk at all.

The horse ran away, in the end. Pullings thinks this may have been one of the factors that made him want to leave his father's farm, and become a sailor with the likes of Captain Aubrey.

\---

Pullings feels the tenseness leave West's hand, and leans back to see him, eyes closed, inhaling slowly through his teeth. He turns blindly towards where Pullings had been a moment ago, breathing warmly on his face, but now there is only cold air.

Pullings cannot bear to see West like this, like a newborn puppy searching with closed eyes for its mother. He kisses him on the mouth, his chapped lips lightly touching West's as his own eyes slide shut. He feels West's tentative fingers in his hair. First it is only the very tips brushing his scalp, but then his hand is tangled in Pullings's hair and he is kissing him back. This tickles him mercilessly, but he doesn't want to stop, or West to move. He incessantly strokes the back of West's other hand.

From the masthead, he hears the very faint but clear call of "Sail ho!" He pulls away, slowly and with regret, then leans back and impulsively kisses West's cheek. He half-stands, raising West's hand to his lips, courtly and almost theatrical, before hurrying on deck with his glass. Captain Aubrey was never one to miss a chase, or a chance to speak a friendly ship.

It is a strange thing that he did. He first thinks this about how he kissed West's hand as he left: an unusually dramatic thing for him to do; but then realizes that it is strange that he kissed the man in the first place. He doubts that he has even kissed his wife as many times.

A sailor approaches him, tugging his forelock respectfully. "Sail, sir, three points off the larboard bow."

"Thank you..." says Pullings, cutting off the end abruptly. He has a momentary image of how this would look if he wrote it: the words "Thank you" and a comma, followed by a large and probably splattered stop. He cannot remember the man's name. Captain Aubrey always remembered his crew's names.

He goes over to the rail to look for the ship, but cannot see it. The lookout must have very sharp eyes. He climbs into the ratlines and to the mizzentop, pointing his glass at the western horizon and seeing a fleck of white. He hails the deck and gives the order to chase.

As he descends, he wonders if West is still sitting there. He rather hopes that it is so; he feels that some sort of explanation may be required for his conduct. He resolves to explain it to himself first.

He thinks that he kissed West because the man was skittish: to comfort him and make him calmer. It did the job. But he liked it when West kissed him back.

Pullings now realizes that what he thought before--that he felt something like this for Captain Aubrey when he was younger--is off the mark. If West feels anything for him, at all, that is probably closer to what Pullings used to feel. Pullings considers that he would then be in Captain Aubrey's position. He is nothing like Captain Aubrey. He kissed West.

He walks slowly towards his cabin. He does not know how he will ever tell West why he did what he did.

\---

Pullings slowly opens the door to his cabin, giving a quick nod of greeting to the sentry outside. He closes it softly behind him. West is still there, and turns at the sound.

Pullings does not know what to say. He thinks he should have stayed on deck longer; perhaps he would have thought of something. He knows what he cannot say: he cannot say "affection", because that is not really the truth, and he is always honest; not "protection", because it sounds insulting, and West is a dueling man; and he cannot say "compassion", because that would be confessing everything he felt for Captain Aubrey.

"Mr. West, I..."

He does not hear West get up from the table and come over to him, but he feels the other man's arms go around him hesitantly.

"...love?" The word is half a whisper, not even fully formed on his lips. This is not what he was going to say; he had no intention of saying it like that.

He realizes that he is not the one saying it, that West's mouth is against his and confiding the word to it. He puts one arm around West's shoulders awkwardly.

Pullings has known many officers. When he was a midshipman, his fellows were all his friends, and he was able to overlook their petty tyrannies over the men in their divisions. The others were his superiors and demanded respect and the utmost obedience.

As a lieutenant, he saw, as if for the first time, the way that a spiteful officer could make life miserable for his subordinates. It is easier to judge those below you. He could not like all the other lieutenants he met: midshipmen have a common lot and can always bond over it, but commissioned officers will let ordinary, personal dislike get in the way of friendship.

He has seen how men can be influenced by their superiors, either to grow like them or to become complete opposites. Captain Aubrey, he thinks, formed officers like himself, at least in the aspects of navigation and gunnery.

Now Pullings is a commander, and there is no one on the ship who will judge him.

And the thing that cannot really be taught, and which matters the most, is how to command.

He is suffocating and turns his head away, but West kisses him again, earnestly and deliberately. Suddenly Pullings realizes that West is desperately trying to stop him from speaking. He does not know that Pullings is not going to speak.

Pullings reclaims his own mouth long enough to take in a deep breath and put a finger over his lips; he thinks that any verbal attempt to tell West that he is not going to say anything will fail. West looks at him--he and Pullings are almost of a height--and understands. He lays his head on Pullings's shoulder and lets his captain murmur to him and stroke the back of his neck.

Pullings is not sure whether to be glad that West saved him from having to explain, or troubled that he cannot make the man comprehend what he feels. He wonders if West really knows, if there is an unspoken understanding betwen them.

West stirs, and Pullings remembers that it is the lieutenant's watch now and he must go to supervise the chase. He slips silently away before Pullings can stop him, and goes on deck.

Pullings has work to do, and does not go out until later. By then, the _Surprise_ has almost come up on her prey, a whaler under the American flag. He thinks that the captain of the whaler is either very honest or new to the sea: she is not even under false colors, though the _Surprise_ is flying the ensign. There is the faintest of possibilities that she is a disguised warship--the _Surprise_ herself, under Captain Aubrey, was once turned into a blue barque for a time--but he does not think it likely.

"Beat to quarters!" he orders. He looks quickly around for the gunner. "Master gunner! Put a ball across her bows, if you please."

The hands run to their stations, and the gunner sights along the length of the larboard bow-chaser. Pullings cannot see where the shot goes, but the chase falls off the wind and falters for a minute before hauling her colors down.

Pullings intercepts a sailor. "My compliments to Mr. West, and he is to go across and take possession." The launch is lowered into the water, and West is rowed across. Pullings dismisses the crew and retires to his cabin.

He does not know anything of West's life in the service; only after his court-martial did he join the _Surprise_. Pullings knows nothing of the ships he was on, or of the captains he served; or if, when he was a midshipman, he idolized his captain as Pullings idolized Captain Aubrey.

\---

There is a knock at the door of the cabin, and the sentry announces "The master of the Yankee whaler, sir!"

Pullings looks up from his work and says wearily "Send him in." At first he cannot believe that West is incapable of performing the necessary formalities himself, taking possession of the ship and checking the master's papers, but then he remembers that West has not had as much experience; perhaps he has never dealt with a prize before.

He is different from West and Davidge, Pullings realizes. This is his sort of cruising: half a world away from admirals and chances of glory. He is at ease in shirtsleeves in a way that is more than physical comfort; a dress uniform is not the same. They are gentlemen, and would rather chase French national ships than American merchantmen: there is more honor in it.

The whaler's master is a young man, almost too young to have been long at sea, Pullings thinks, and to be captain of a ship. He realizes that he himself is scarcely older; that they were probably the same age when they went to sea, one a midshipman and the other a layman; and that the skipper of a whaling ship is the master, not the captain, so perhaps that makes a difference.

In all his previous experience, the business of the capture was done aboard the prize, and the amount of courtesy used was the defeated commander’s decision. He is unsure now of what to do: he is the victor, and should be at an advantage, but all he can do is gesture to a chair and say "Do sit down", awkwardly.

The master hands a sheaf of papers across, and before Pullings can ask answers " _Jeroboam_ , two years out of Nantucket. Samuel Mayhew, master." He leaves his hand out after Pullings has accepted the papers, and Pullings takes it with barely a pause.

"You’ve a full hold?"

"Nearly. We were to sail for home in a week."

"I shall send you into Valparaiso with a prize-crew. They'll deal with you there." It will not be a prize-crew, of course: the _Surprise_ cannot spare men enough to be called a prize-crew. Three or four will have to do.

And they do, and do, and do, again and again, until Callao, where the _Surprise_ leaves off cruising the coast and turns westward. They escort their last two prizes into port, take on provisions, and spend their last night ashore before crossing the Pacific.

There are always visitors to a ship in port, in capacities more or less official. One, this time, is a very tall black Popish clergyman with an Irish accent, looking for Captain Aubrey or Doctor Maturin. This is mildly strange, but Pullings is naturally obliged to tell him that neither the Captain nor the Doctor is on board.

He is at the Governor's that evening, in the dress uniform of a commander: the officer's equivalent of a night on the town. For a while he shuttles back and forth between groups of captains and groups of lieutenants, then finds a gentleman farmer and is surprised by how well they get on. He sees, standing next to the Bishop, the priest from earlier, who gives him a letter for Captain Aubrey and a name he forgets. (Spiritual power is all very well, he thinks, but he would rather remain a naval officer: for one thing, it does not entail the wearing of a purple robe.)

They weigh anchor the next morning and leave on the last of the land breeze, for the Orient. This is the sort of sailing Pullings loves, as Captain Aubrey does, logging two hundred miles in a day with the sun overhead and a fair wind over a calm sea. It defies navigation: the _Surprise_ is at the center of a disk of ocean, and everything else revolves.

**Author's Note:**

> \--This is set during _The Thirteen-Gun Salute_ , when Pullings is cruising the Pacific in the _Surprise_ while Jack and Stephen are in the _Diane_ on a diplomatic mission. mandc_library, at LJ, files it under _The Wine-Dark Sea_ , but this is an error (West and Pullings appear in _The Wine-Dark Sea_ , but that's later).  
> \--I abandoned this because I never had any real plan for where it was going to go, except for a vague scene that I accidentally cribbed off in "[Aurora](http://archiveofourown.org/works/195363)." Pullings walks in on West and Davidge having hate!sex, and they don't see him, and he angsts and thinks, and everything eventually goes to hell as per canon.  
> \--This was divided into five chapters, but because it's unfinished, I just stuck all the chapters in one page and separated them with markings.  
> \--The names of Mayhew and the _Jeroboam_ whaler come from _Moby-Dick_ , but it's just the names, they're not intended to be the same at all.  
> \--Looking at it years after, I find the actual interaction between Pullings and West in this fic awful and deadly dull.  
> \--I never marked this Aubrey/Pullings at any of the places I posted it before, not least because Aubrey never actually appears. But he's more than enough of a presence that I reconsidered, though I did not tag him as a character.  
> \--Rereading _The Thirteen-Gun Salute_ , I am reminded that by this point Pullings has four children. Oops.


End file.
